


The Phantom Chase

by Pyjamapants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Games, Non-Graphic Violence, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyjamapants/pseuds/Pyjamapants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty launches a series of kidnappings that have Sherlock Holmes at wit's end, desperate for evidence, motive, and sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Move

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank yous to alpha/betas/britpickers Annietalbot, dickgloucester, machshefa, and sc010f for your advice, insight, and support.

Sherlock's mobile rings out four times before John badgers him about answering it.

“It's just Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbles.

“He's called four times, Sherlock.”

“So?” Sherlock says, twisting into a more comfortable shape on the couch and shoving his toes underneath John. John shifts, unsure how to respond. Since the pool, they've reached a sort of impasse. John won't meet his direct stare for more than a second most days, always redirecting his line of sight somewhere else. There's something there, something unacknowledged in the chasm between them. Sherlock delights in taunting him from the other side.

Attempting to ignore the toes, John responds, “Well, it's obviously important.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that. “To him, perhaps.”

“Well, you were just whinging about being so bored that you were reduced to watching EastEnders with me,” John points out. Sherlock notes the way John's mouth tightens before he says the word 'watching.' So Sherlock's running commentary _has_ got under his skin. Good. Perhaps they could turn this drivel off sooner rather than later.

The phone chirps again, and Sherlock heeds John's glare and finally answers it. “I'm not interested, Mycroft.”

“Oh, you'll b-be interested in th-this, Sh-Sherlock.”

Mycroft hasn't stuttered since he was eleven. Sherlock's face goes slack and he nearly drops the phone. He yanks his feet out from under John and stands, beginning to pace his familiar circuit.

Across the room, John eyes him suspiciously and switches off the telly.

“Mycroft, you bloody idiot. You are better protected than the Royals. How... HOW have you managed to get yourself kidnapped by _him_?” Sherlock demands.

“Oh, this one was m-much m-more f-fun to t-take than th-that idiot s-sidekick of yours. I a-always l-like a ch-challenge. K-keeps me f-from g-getting b-bored. Although th-this one's stu-stuttering is a bu-bit m-maddening. N-no w-wonder you're su-such a pa-prick if-f you grew up-p w-with th-this.”

Sherlock's jaw clenches. For a half-second he's torn by a stab of pity towards his brother. His stuttering's growing worse by the word, which indicates increasing distress. Something more than explosives and laser-guided rifles then.

Sherlock doesn't think about how his stomach twists as he tries to keep Mycroft, or rather Moriarty, talking. He tunes out the specifics of his brother's voice, tries to filter out the stuttering. Moriarty brags for a moment about how easy it was to redirect his brother's travel plans. How Mycroft just accepted that the car that looked like his car _was_ his car. Sherlock can hear, in his mind anyway, Moriarty's laughter as his brother says, “Aren't-t ch-child locks w-wonderful?”

By the end of the conversation, Sherlock doesn't hear his brother's voice. His ears are translating for him, delivering Moriarty's whining, slithering, high-pitched warble. “Your clue will come in the post, Sherlock. Oops, tomorrow's Sunday, isn't it? I suppose you'll have to wait until Monday to find out whether or not my package will tick.”

The mobile goes dead in his hand. Sherlock stares at it before sinking onto the couch, his head cradled in his hands, trying to contain the rapid-fire bursts of thought hammering him from every direction. His eyes dart over the detritus that the two bachelors have scattered across the room in between Mrs Hudson's cleanings. Over the worn paths in the rug that he's made since he moved in. Over the stack of periodicals tilting against the wall.

Why Mycroft? Moriarty has to be aware that Sherlock barely tolerates his brother. Considers him a pest. Someone who must be humoured. Getting him out of Sherlock's hair is very nearly a favour.

True, there was the challenge of Mycroft's circumstances, but Moriarty was the man who'd saved the trainers from the first case Sherlock ever noticed, from the first case, perhaps, Moriarty had caused. Switching out Mycroft's car was hardly a solution clever enough to be worth bothering.

Is Moriarty chaffed over Mycroft's intervention at the pool? Is it simply a matter of killing two birds with one stone?

Surely not. No, that was too obvious. There must be something else. But what?

Sherlock startles when John's hand settles on his back. John's hand doesn't budge.

“I don't understand...” Sherlock says, still cradling his head.

John's voice is quiet and calm. Cautiously optimistic. Soothing. The way it always is. Well, the way it always is unless Sherlock's got under his skin. “You'll figure it out. You always do.”

John's hand is heavy against the small of Sherlock's back. Sherlock leans into the touch. John continues, “Though I suspect you won't have much luck figuring things out until Moriarty sends whatever package it is he's put in the post.”

Sherlock lifts his head from his hands, turns to look at John. “What is it you think I'm trying to understand?”

His brow crinkles in that way it does when he's thinking hard, trying to figure out where he dropped the plot, what exactly he's missed for which Sherlock is about to chastise him. Only Sherlock hasn't chastised him in a long while. Not since the pool.

And yet, John still hasn't moved his hand.

“You're trying to figure out where Moriarty has stashed Mycroft,” John says, half statement, half question.

“Much as you might believe, I'm not omniscient, John. I hardly have enough to go on to deduce that at this stage.”

Sherlock watches John swallow his frustration, his jaw shifting from side to side before he says. “Right then. What is it you're trying to understand?”

“Why it is he bothered to take Mycroft.”

“He's your brother, Sherlock. Moriarty probably figures it's the best way to get at you.”

To his credit, John doesn't wither under the look Sherlock gives him. He doesn't maintain eye contact, no surprise there, but he doesn't cower.

“He did threaten to burn your heart out. It's... reasonable that he would do that through your sibling.” John's jaw is tight now, his movements controlled, and Sherlock knows he's thinking of Harry.

“Yes, but it's _Mycroft._ Surely he's brighter than to think I'd get fussed over _Mycroft._ ”

John's eyes narrow. He pulls his hand away.

Before John can lecture him on what Sherlock _ought_ to be feeling, Sherlock continues, “My relationship with Mycroft is nothing like yours with Harry, and you know it, John. And I'm sure Moriarty does as well. Which is why it doesn't make sense that it was Mycroft he kidnapped.”

“The list of people you even keep in your acquaintance is limited.”

“Yes...” Sherlock says with scepticism. Where is John headed with this? Other than stating the obvious as he so often does.

Exasperated, John runs a hand through his hair. “Sherlock, if he wants to hurt you, there's only so many people he can choose from.”

John's posture goes rigid, reverting to near military form. Sherlock cannot tell whether John's still upset over his perceived indifference to Mycroft's plight – Sherlock _isn't_ indifferent, really. It just... doesn't make sense. Or perhaps John's imagining his own kidnapping, wondering if Sherlock would be speaking so unemotionally if his own fate were up in the air.

“Yes, John. There's only so many people he can choose from,” Sherlock parrots back, the words spilling out quietly as he shoves his feet into his shoes and bends down to tie the laces.

“So who is it you would have expected, then?” John asks, his voice quiet through clenched teeth.

Sherlock grabs his phone as he launches himself from the sofa. He stalks towards the door, stopping to grab his coat. “I should think that fairly obvious, John,” he says, shrugging into his coat.

John looks at him blankly. “Where are you going?”

“To where Mycroft was abducted, of course,” he says, already dialling Lestrade as he descends the stairs.

“Hurry up if you're coming with me,” he shouts up the stairs.


	2. Phantom Crime Scene

By the time Sherlock rings off with Anthea, finding out where it was Mycroft went missing, John is at his side, arm raised to hail a cab.

John's barely opened the door before Sherlock barks out the address, shoving them both into the cab.

Throughout the ride, John's expression – or what Sherlock sees of it when he's not staring out the window, mind racing – oscillates between muddled confusion, anger, and concern. Sherlock looks down to find that he is drumming his hands on his knees.

'Thrill of the game?' John asks, judgement lurking somewhere in between the syllables.

'No... I'm... anxious is the best word for it.' Sherlock shoves his hands into his pockets. The cab ride is killing him. Can't the bloody cabbie drive any faster?

John's voice is low and strangled as he says, 'Finally sunk in that it's your brother who's been captured, then?'

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the scent of taxi nearly gagging him. 'I was well aware and rather concerned from the moment Mycroft first spoke. And while he's got himself in a precarious position, I've no doubt he'll handle himself better than most would in such a situation. My getting emotional about his circumstance will only impede the investigation.'

John's neck cracks as he jerks to look at Sherlock. He begins to say something but Sherlock cuts him off. 'I am not incapable of feeling concern, John. I know you're not so dense that you can't extrapolate to your own circumstances. If someone you knew were suddenly under your medical care, would you cease all activity to have a sniffle over them? Or would you shove whatever selfish, useless emotions you have aside and do your job?'

'Not useless, Sherlock,' John clarifies and turns to look out the window. 'But point taken.'

The cab is stopped at a police cordon five streets away from where they need to be. John's been clutching a handful of five-pound notes in his hand for the last five minutes and shoves them at the driver as he and Sherlock clamber out of the cab. A policeman waves them through the barricade.

Sherlock forces his pace to a brisk walk, his long legs still covering enough territory that John is nearly at a jog trying to keep up. Sherlock slows down. He's learned that one does not run at crime scenes unless one is running _with_ the officers. And John hardly needs another wound to slow him down. The area is swarming with police. By his estimate, even those usually relegated to desk duty are out in force.

Finally, Sherlock spies a cluster of familiar figures.

Lestrade, for once, looks well rested. Sherlock holds the tiniest shred of hope that this means he'll have noticed something of value.

Lestrade has noticed nothing. Sherlock would be disappointed, except that that initial shred of hope had hardly been more than a speck.

'We've got one of our forensic computer guys trying to figure out how Moriarty's people hacked Mycroft's schedule,' Lestrade offers.

Sherlock nods, eyes darting about the scene. He imagines Mycroft walking down the steps, mobile in hand, scrolling through the latest news feeds. He would have opened the door, unsuspecting and settled into his usual seat.

Elegant. No force required. Nothing suspicious to any outsiders' eyes. Not that eye witnesses are of much use. Especially not with CCTV watching.

No, Moriarty has set everything up such that Mycroft effectively kidnapped himself.

Donovan is silent as Sherlock lurches around the crime scene.

As John would say, there's not so much as a mouse fart in terms of evidence.

Donovan smirks when Sherlock comes up empty. 'Not much to go on, is there, Freak? Now you know how the rest of the world feels before you waltz into a crime scene.'

'Christ, Sally. Show some tact,' Lestrade scolds.

Her “why not? Freak doesn't” goes unspoken.

The taunt barely registers. Sherlock is already furious without Donovan's intrusion.

He has picked through everything the Yard has collected on the matter. Twice. For all it will do, examining gum wrappers and cigarette butts from individuals wholly unconnected to Mycroft's case.

He stalks the streets around where Mycroft was picked up. He scans the CCTV footage on a laptop some nameless government agent shoves in front of him.

There is nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing that is helpful anyway. Though there are several details laid out to mock Sherlock. The numbers on the license plate are the same as those from the Mazda rented from Janus Cars. Lestrade quickly confirms that they're counterfeit.

They lose sight of the car on the CCTV when it passes behind a lorry advertising Jim's Meats. A quick search on his phone reveals, of course, no business with such a name except in the States. The phone number listed on the lorry leads to the pink mobile, which Sherlock has brought with him in case Moriarty decides to use it once again. Sherlock nearly throws it into the street when he dials its number without thinking and the damn thing rings from his pocket.

He ignores Donovan's bark of laughter.

Half of Scotland Yard has been standing around the crime scene, eyeing Sherlock and waiting for him to connect the disparate pieces of evidence and lead them off in the right direction. No epiphany manifests from the scene.

There is no evidence trail to follow. Moriarty has left no track uncovered.

With a muttered goodbye to Lestrade and a glance at John, who indicates that Sherlock should go on without him, Sherlock sets off towards the flat, fuming. He eschews a cab this time. Perhaps the walk will rattle something loose.

Nothing does.

221 Baker Street is empty when he returns to it.

Mrs Hudson is out, leaving blessed silence.

John has wisely decided to stop off at the shops on the way home, ostensibly to purchase milk or biscuits or whatever it was he mumbled under his breath. But seeing as John just went shopping on Thursday, Sherlock sees it for the excuse it is. John is wary of being in the path of Sherlock's frustration tonight.

So Sherlock's annoyance, stress, tension – whatever it is normal people call it – has free reign to echo about 221 as he enters. The sound of his steps bounces off the stairwell walls. The slam of the door to 221B leaves dull silence in its wake.

For once, Sherlock _feels_ alone as he enters the flat and hurls himself onto the couch.

He stares at the ceiling, mentally scrolling through the evidence once again.

Sherlock has talked to Anthea twice. Their car had been two minutes late due to some minor traffic obstruction that hadn't been worth noting at the time. When they arrived to pick Mycroft up, he was absent. Then Mycroft sent a text saying that he'd been kept after a meeting.

She'd thought nothing out of the ordinary until Mycroft missed his scheduled tea with some undersecretary.

For security purposes, Mycroft's phone does _not_ have one of those nifty, online tracking programs that Sherlock could access. Though one of Mycroft's superiors – Sherlock hadn't been aware Mycroft _had_ superiors – had informed him that their own nifty, not-publicly-accessible tracking programs were useless because Mycroft's phone is turned off. Either that or it's been destroyed.

Sherlock fits the new evidence into the mental profile he's already established for Moriarty. He is accustomed to Moriarty teasing him, tantalizing him with information, with puzzles. But Moriarty has never mocked him before. No, Moriarty considered them equals, rivals, opposites. And a threat, Sherlock reminds himself. At least he used to.

He feels more like an incompetent twat now, and he cringes as Donovan's insult rings in his ears.

And it still – _still_ – isn't clear why he's selected Mycroft, and it pricks at Sherlock's skin, his brain, the conscience he's got tucked away in cold storage.

It is a new experience for Sherlock to be handling a case where he knows the victim, never mind one he knows so well. It sends his thoughts skittering scattering off to speculate about how Mycroft is responding to the event. He can nearly feel his neurons firing, chaotic and stupid, like the overstated, choreographed fireworks displays John likes so much. This distraction is rather unwelcome, even if it is the only thing keeping his mind off the infuriating lack of evidence.

Sherlock curses Moriarty, amongst other things, for introducing Sherlock to something more maddening than boredom.

He stands, walking over to the window and staring out, eyes idly taking in the details. The building across the street has been demolished. Too much structural damage from the blast. More cost effective to rebuild than repair.

First that building.

Then the shoes in 221c.

Now Mycroft.

Moriarty must be delighting in the fact that he can hit so close to home. Repeatedly. Little shit.

Sherlock cannot tolerate looking out the window another second.

He begins pacing the flat, amused to note that since John's moved in, and had the free time to tidy in earnest, the surface area of the floor space seems to have tripled.

John.

Sherlock is glad that John is out. For weeks before the pool, it seemed all he and John had done was bicker. The pool had ended that. Ended John's _constant_ nagging at Sherlock about his utter lack of empathy. His callousness. His coldness.

Sherlock wonders when, if ever, John will cue in to the fact that Sherlock _does_ care about people, about actual, live people. It just manifests differently for him. It's applied in aggregates. Sherlock could easy apply his skills elsewhere. Stocks and foreign exchange. International politics, though not diplomacy, of course. But Sherlock would make a rather smart spy. For short projects anyway.

But, no, he's chosen to apply his skills to solving crimes. If John could abstract _at all_ then he would see.

Sherlock stiffens when he hears keys rattling at the front door, and he flings himself onto the couch, feigning sleep. Or failing that, deep thought about the case, rather than the muddy waters of intra-Baker Street relations.

He's tense, waiting for an auditory clue as to the intruder. He is _not_ up to dealing with Mrs Hudson and had rather hoped John would arrive home first to run interference.

He relaxes when he hears the rustle of bags as their door opens and closes.

He looks up to find that John has sprouted Tesco's bags where his hands once were. He must have spent half his paycheck... no, a third. He lifts the bags, gesturing with them. 'I've brought goodies for you.'

'John, you know I don't eat during a case.'

'Yes, but you haven't any evidence to think about, have you?' John says, carrying the groceries into the kitchen.

'No,' Sherlock grumbles, shifting on the couch.

John returns to the living room, hands behind his back, and stands by the couch, looking absurdly proud for a man who has succeeded in purchasing items at Tesco's. Sherlock does not chastise him for his pride because John will simply point out that Sherlock hasn't yet managed to complete the same noble quest.

' _I_ bought you prawn crisps and Penguins,' John says, tossing one package each of biscuits and crisps onto Sherlock's chest.

'I don't –'

'You'll need the fuel for when Moriarty's post comes.'

Sherlock stops objecting. He just stares at the package, the ridiculous bird _smiling_ at him.

'I'll put the kettle on.'

Wisely, John does not comment when he returns and sees Sherlock has opened the bag of crisps. He shoves Sherlock's feet off the couch and settles onto the other end, fishing for the remote and switching the telly to a football match.

Sherlock abandons the crisps in favour of the biscuits when John's internal tea timer goes off. He returns to the couch, setting two cups on the coffee table. John says nothing when Sherlock offers him the last biscuit in the package.

Sherlock watches the match for a moment, wondering if this is what normal life is like, before he returns to staring at the ceiling, disparate thoughts about Moriarty and Mycroft flitting through his mind. The match ends some interminable amount of time later, and John gets up, announcing that he's going to shower.

And so it is that Sherlock begins pacing the flat again. This is how he discovers that John has purchased several packages of nicotine patches. Sherlock grins as he rips a package open and applies one to his arm. At this point, he doesn't expect one, two, or twelve patches to help him come up with any answers. But he knows he's agitated. He can practically feel all his cells vibrating, and one patch ought to help, at least, sooth that particular physical manifestation of the stress he's feeling.

John returns post-shower for another match – do they play these things at _all_ hours of the day? His eyes flicker to watch Sherlock every fourth or fifth turn through the room.

'You're wearing the rug out, Sherlock,' John says, as if he's observant enough to note rates of degradation of rug fibres.

'Perhaps you should go pace on the stairs,' he suggests with a tight smile.

At 23:15 a still tipsy Mrs Hudson comes out and shoos him back to the living room, offering to bring him scones if he'll just sit in one place for the rest of the night. Sherlock notes that sitting in one place does not preclude playing his violin. At midnight, John, apparently cranky from listening to the match filtered through the sound of violin, offers to document and write up results for Sherlock's next twelve experiments if he'll shut up.

At 00:03 Sherlock considers that he could make a living quite easily simply by accepting bribes to cease his more annoying habits. Lestrade's team might be willing to cover the rent for half the year if he simply sent John to crime scenes in his stead.

John begins nodding off in his armchair shortly after two, failing yet again in his attempt to keep vigil with Sherlock. He protests any efforts to uproot him to sleep in his bed for a proper night's sleep until half past four when Sherlock threatens him with whatever is lurking at the bottom drawer of the refrigerator. This threat has never once failed to send him scuttling upstairs.

John flips him two fingers through his sleepy haze before shuffling to his room, and despite his frustration, Sherlock finds himself smiling. The bottom drawer, for once, is full of food.

Sherlock is still sitting on the couch, mentally reviewing his entire case file on Moriarty, when John clambers down to the kitchen four hours later for a quick breakfast before his shift at the surgery. His pre-tea grunt is particularly unintelligible this morning. His post-tea mumbled good-bye is hardly better.

Sherlock pulls out his phone. If John's up, that means Lestrade is up, and Sherlock can send the first volley of questions and demands for updates. Lestrade, like most people, tends to respond more promptly to a flurry of multiple texts, if only to stop the deluge.

 _08:32 Require update on investigation. SH_

 _08:35 Has computer forensics tracked source of hack? SH_

 _08:41 Any contact from Moriarty on other channels? Any suspicious crimes? SH_

Sherlock settles back on the couch. Another text in five minutes and Lestrade should begin to respond.

 _08:46 Want to see Moriarty-related case files. When can you meet at SY? SH_

There are only two recent cases that Sherlock knows with certainty Moriarty was involved in. How many more has he had a hand in? How many cases has Sherlock helped the police with over the years that he's orchestrated? And how can Sherlock begin to ferret them out from the rest?

He cannot afford to comb through everything. While it's a potential gold mine about Moriarty's resources and capabilities, it's also a potential distraction of epic proportions.

He needs access to people who have contracted with Moriarty. He needs to know how Moriarty found them. How he communicated.

Lestrade still hasn't responded.

 _08:59 Perhaps we should plant murder for hire schemes to entrap Moriarty's agents? SH_

Sherlock's phone rings fifteen seconds later.

'Have you lost your mind, Sherlock? Of course we're not going to fake a murder for hire.'

'It would work.'

'Sherlock, we have undercover agents that are _good_ , but from everything you've told me, none of them are _that_ good. And the ones who might have a chance... I'm not going to piss away their lives on this. Because that's what it would be.'

'Fine. Perhaps Mycroft knows someone who... oh, right.'

Lestrade does not attempt to fill the awkward silence.

Sherlock exhales, the noise amplified by the phone. 'Look, I want to interview de Santos, Wenceslas, Ewart, and Monkford.'

He waits for Lestrade to offer transcripts of the police interviews and is relieved when he bypasses his usual song and dance. 'I'm surprised you haven't already asked that.'

'I've been... regrouping.'

'It's not like you to need to catch your breath, Sherlock,' Lestrade says, eyeing him with something just short of worry.

'Yes, well, I don't normally have half a building dropped around me, do I?' Sherlock bites back, annoyed that Lestrade's pushed the issue, making him play the pool card in self-defense.

'Fair enough. I'll see what I can arrange.' Lestrade hesitates. 'You do know there's a good chance they'll be killed if Moriarty suspects we're trying to get additional information from them.'

'He's too smart not to expect it. And... you say this as if you don't expect there to be more casualties in this, Lestrade. As if _I_ wasn't almost a casualty. As if Mycroft might not be one.' Sherlock is alarmed by how shaky his voice has become as this exchange has progressed. 'And I'm surprised to find _you_ so protective of the demand side of the criminal mastermind equation.'

'I'm not being _protective_ , Sherlock. I just don't want you to... Look, we'll talk more about the investigation later. We intercepted your post yesterday, and it's at the lab now being tested. I'll pop over to Baker Street when they're done.'

'Text first. I might be out.'

'Fine,' Lestrade says before ringing off.

Sherlock settles back onto the couch; he's not sure at what point in the conversation he started pacing again. His mind reverts to the conversation with Mycroft, and he replays it, hoping against hope that Mycroft let loose some crucial detail. That he accented a particular syllable. That he hesitated. But there is nothing there.

Sherlock finally realises that he's stuck in a thought loop when he's replayed the conversation more than a dozen times with absolutely no results.

He grabs his coat. He must leave the flat before it's more than his thoughts that feel like they're closing   
in on him.

His feet, of course, carry him to the scene of the abduction. His heart sinks and his frustration mounts   
when he sees that the barricade is gone and the crime scene tape stripped away.

Of course, the area is too central, too important to keep locked away behind a police cordon. But it stings.

Sherlock walks every street, every alley ten streets in every direction from where the abduction occurred. He's not sure what he's looking for exactly, other than something out of place. He finds nothing.

He makes his way back to the flat, jaw set and stride determined. He's seen no outright evidence to support the theory, but he suspects that Moriarty is watching him. If he can access Mycroft's schedule, surely he can access the security feeds as well. Sherlock shudders at the thought of Moriarty _watching_ his increasing frustration and impending madness, watching him _dance_ all over the city.

It's all he can do not to howl in annoyance when he returns to the privacy of the flat.

Ten minutes later, Lestrade texts him. The message is brief and doesn't mention the post at all. So the lab found nothing, then.

Just after three, Lestrade delivers Sherlock's bomb-squad inspected post. There is nothing remarkable in any of the pieces. Bills. An invoice for some repair Mrs Hudson had ordered for the flat. A flyer for a new Chinese restaurant. All of it is scrutinised for hidden meaning. None of it yields any answers.

At this point in the game, Sherlock would have been very surprised if it had. Lestrade is watching from the armchair, eyes wary.

Sherlock discards the post onto the table where John usually puts it and sits on the couch, opposite Lestrade. 'What other bad news did you bring me?'

Lestrade clears his throat before beginning. 'De Santos is dead. Monkford, Wenceslas, and Ewart are all on suicide watch after what the prison officers assumed were attempts. After my inquiry, they've been placed under increased surveillance and could possibly be moved to more secure prisons. Monkford and Wenceslas are both in Holloway. Ewart is in Pentonville.'

'And where was De Santos?'

'Also Pentonville. And yes, we're already investigating to find out what happened.'

Sherlock glances at Lestrade, who is already braced for sarcasm. Instead of the barb waiting on the tip of his tongue, Sherlock says, 'I need more data on Moriarty. I need to know what other crimes he's had a hand in. What other crimes of his I've investigated. How he usually operates. I have no evidence to go on, and the only direct conversation I've had with him was under such duress, I'm not sure I trust my observations.'

'How do you know you've investigated his cases?' Lestrade says in that easy way of his that always sounds as though he hasn't got the wits to tie his own shoes in the morning.

'Because he told me to back off. He, _he_ , spent the thirty million on that stupid painting to, as he said it, “get me to come out and play,” and he wouldn't have done so if I hadn't threatened him before somehow. Hell, he sponsored a serial killer to get my attention... or to redirect my attentions. Trust me, Lestrade, I've investigated his cases.'

'What do you need then? Case files? Summary reports?'

'Yes, because I'd love nothing more than to wade through hundreds of pages of your nonsensical scribble.'

'Sherlock...' Lestrade warns.

Sherlock waves away his warning and slumps against the back of the couch. 'I suppose I have nowhere else to start.'

Lestrade opens his mouth to say something, then reconsiders. He shifts uncomfortably. 'I can't let those files out of the building, Sherlock, especially given the quantity involved.'

Sherlock groans and slumps further. 'You cannot possibly expect me to work under those conditions.'

'Sherlock, _I_ work under those conditions. I'm sure you can tolerate it.'

They stare at each other a moment, Sherlock gritting his teeth to avoid conceding that he's desperate enough to put up with Donovan and Anderson for days on end.

'Look, just until you've narrowed the field to some sort of reasonable number of cases. Just carting the boxes out from storage will take hours.'

Sherlock nods. 'When can I start?'

'Monday at eleven,' he says. When Sherlock begins to protest, he cuts in, 'I've got a department meeting in the morning. You're lucky I didn't push it until the afternoon.'

With that, he stands. 'I'll see you in the morning, Sherlock.'

Lestrade lets himself out, and Sherlock begins mentally rifling through the cases he's worked on, thinking about trends, peculiarities, and any possible bits of data that may signal Moriarty's involvement. He also thinks about what he hadn't said to Lestrade, that there may be dozens or hundreds of other cases of which Sherlock's not aware, nor possibly the police.

John walks through the door at eight, his head tilting when he doesn't see any immediate damage to the flat.

Sherlock is sprawled out on the sofa, his fingers idly tracing the patterns in the fabric. He turns his head, watching John, ever a creature of habit, begin his coming-home routine.

'Any news?' John asks before stepping into the kitchen to turn the kettle on.

'Nothing useful.'

John initiates six conversations in the next ten minutes before he gives it up for a lost cause.

Sherlock simply looks at the ceiling. All night. Simply stares. Like _he's_ simple. His brain is a vacant, Antarctic wasteland. He's quite sure his brain has never been so full of nothing.

Eventually John mutters something and goes upstairs.

Sherlock is still staring, convinced he can see patterns in the cracks in the plaster, a thought which tells him it's entirely possible the I.Q. of the room dropped when John left.

John sleeps in Monday morning. Sherlock is still awake, of course, on Monday when the post comes early – the post that had apparently come from outside official channels – and lands in the entryway with a loud thud. Sherlock is down the stairs so fast he's not entirely certain he didn't fall.

He throws the door open, but there is no one in the vicinity who could have left the parcel. Sherlock scrambles back inside and opens it, tearing the brown paper so quickly that he opens a slice on his index finger. Cursing, he grabs a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe and wraps it around the wound.

The package is empty.

Sherlock rips the door open, fully prepared to run, full-tilt, in the most probable direction.

He stops before his foot crosses the threshold.

Because Mycroft is standing on the doorstep, briefcase in hand, umbrella noticeably absent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank yous to alpha/betas/britpickers annietalbot , dickgloucester, machshefa, and sc010f for your advice, insight, and support. Any lingering mistakes are my own.


End file.
